Distance In Her Eyes
by Agent Elisa
Summary: Somewhere far away from Earth, a woman is lost and lonely...


TITLE: Distance In Her Eyes  
AUTHOR: Agent Elisa  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully is  
the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions  
and FOX. Not me, in case you wondered. Not that I  
think it was any doubting.  
RATED: G  
CLASSIFICATION: VRA  
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance, Alternate Universe  
SPOILERS: No. Or yeah, perhaps. That would be the whole  
series.  
FEEDBACK: A very early or very late birthday present  
can be given at: agent_elisa@hotmail.com  
ARCHIVE: Sure, just let me know where.  
SUMMARY: Somewhere far away from Earth, a woman is lost and lonely...  
  
**DISTANCE IN HER EYES**  
by Agent Elisa  
(agent_elisa@hotmail.com)  
  
She sits all by herself, comforted by the safe haven of an ancient, fallen tree, her hands clasped in her dress-clad lap and that old  
sadness rising upon her face once again, now as familiar as a beloved  
friend. A few of her auburn curls dances around her head in the wind, and she looks so gloomy and pale in comparison to the green of the warm summer forest.  
But still, this woman holds so much more beauty and mystery than anyone else I know. Sometimes when I lay my eyes on her I swear I can see a powerful aura shimmering around her, and it is always colored greyish, like a reflection of the inner despair I figure she has quite a dose of.  
I took her to the silence and peace of this deep forest to let her collect the shattered pieces of herself, because I know that is what she needs more than anything else. Everything about her is shattered, like an enourmous jigsaw puzzle that I'm not sure will ever be fully completed.  
So many pieces are missing...  
  
I don't know is she came to our land by accident, or by some higher power's will, but I look at the first option as more reliable.  
I don't think her own God would want to hurt as much as this visit in Gwladylon has. She is an enigma, but there is a few minor (or major, for that matter) things about her I'm pretty sure of.  
First: She doesn't wanna be here.  
Second: There is someone she's missing.  
Third: She'll die soon if she doesn't get out of here.  
I found her four years ago by Rivermoon Lake, where her badly injured body, barely breathing, lay dirty and bloody. As the medicine man of  
the tribe I considered it my duty to bring her home and take care of her, so I did it. Countless are those nights when I've prayed for her, helped her exhausted body to continue its struggle for some more life and, with more and more hope growing steady, watched her slow recovery.  
It took three weeks for her to remember how to speak and one more to be able to eat by herself. I can still recall that night when she  
opened her eyes, looked up at me and said:  
"Where am I?" Many questions needed answers then, and some of them  
went unanswered. The poor woman I had grown to like so much and would, in the end, even look at as my own daughter instead of a guest or patient, couldn't remember anything about her past expect her name: Dana.  
Everything else was gone, cleared. She had a hard time dealing with it, but she was strong. Oh yes, she had much strength, and she fought. She fought and fought and then fought some more, and although she never recalled any more of her past then the name which she went under, I think she was pretty happy.  
  
I introduced her to the rest of the tribe, and she was nice and polite, although she never felt ready to join in our ceremonies  
and traditions. That is why she never became a member of the tribe, and that is also why my good reputation had a sudden turn when I decided to let her stay with me despite her refusal to become one of us.  
Dana could smile, not so often, but she smiled all the same. Only that whatever the source of her happiness or amusing was, the smile  
never reached her eyes. They were always sorrowful and I know they will continue to be, perhaps for eternity.  
It didn't take me long time to understand why she often seemed so gloomy: something from her past, something she couldn't remember, held her back and kept her trapped in its dreadful misery. Something, or rather someone.  
Because at times, in the late evenings when she went out to see the stars appear on the dark blue sky, one after one, until they were scattered all over the velvet heavens, I used to sometimes watch her (in order to learn a few of all the secrets she and her heart kept locked in) and then saw how the expression on her face turned into   
something that could impossibly be mistaken:  
longing.  
She longed for someone, (and her love for him, the love that apparently had survived even this in some sort of way and sent her emotional waves, fragrances of something undying and eternal she wanted to get a grip of) she missed that someone so badly there were no doubts it would kill her, eventually, if they weren't reunited.  
And how could such an event be arranged, when I guessed he, like she, was not of this world?  
  
Yes, now Dana sits there on the dead tree, her eyes longing and distant, and for the first time I see her gloom in daylight. It draws the blood from her face and puts on a pale mask of sorrow, a mask I wish I could wipe off, so I could discover the happy Dana. I see her as my daughter (I know she has a father somewhere, but where is he now?), and her death would not only kill herself but also me. I am an old man though, so it doesn't bother me that much, but I know I will never find peace if I can't make her happy again.  
I have thought so much about this, but no options seems to be there, no solutions hide in the dark... or the light, or elsewhere.  
The trees cast shadows over the place where I stand and I watch her rise and turn away from me. She covers her face with her hands and soon I recognize the soft sounds of her sobbing.  
She sinks to her knees, and I know there is nothing I can do. I am completely helpless.  
The sobbing continues, and from her mouth, I hear a word being whispered, in the shape of the caress from the wind:  
"Mulder."  
  
The End 


End file.
